by Mel Starr
“Aye. To Hawisa. Got a son, an’ another babe on the way.”
“Sir Thomas and Ralph seek the favor of a lass beneath their station. Are there no men of her station who are suitors?”
“Oh, aye. Osbern Mallory, ’tis said, has approached her father about paying court. A widower, is Osbern. Has lands of Osney Abbey in Cumnor, beyond Swinford. Wealthy fellow, but no title. An’ Maude may be of the commons, but Simon’s got a heavy purse. Inherited ’is brother’s shop in Oxford when ’e died.”
“Who of these suitors does the reeve prefer?”
“Sir Thomas, ’tis said.”
“And Maude? What is her opinion?”
“Ralph is a handsome fellow, an’ so is Osbern. Folk do say she prefers them. Sir Thomas bein’ stout an’ not so pleasin’ to look upon.”
“But the reeve cares little for a son-in-law’s appearance,” I said. “If his daughter wed the son of the lord of a manor his position would be much enhanced.”
“Aye. Sure enough.”
I thanked the man for his time, and he replied with a toothless grin. Well he might. He had earned a penny for but two cups of ale.
“Lots of fellows who’d be displeased to know a novice of the abbey was payin’ court to Maude,” Arthur said as we left the ale house.
“Aye. It will be well to speak to them. But first I will visit Abbot Thurstan and see how he fares.”
He did not fare well.
I found Brother Guibert attending his abbot, both men silent, waiting. I thought Abbot Thurstan to be asleep, so spoke to the infirmarer.
“Does he complain of pain?”
It was the abbot who replied. “He does not,” the old monk said softly.
“The hemp seeds,” Brother Guibert said, “seem effective. He has slept some this morning.”
“Has he taken any more of the seeds since before dawn?”
“Nay.”
“It is near to noon. Perhaps he should have another potion, and again after compline, so he may sleep the better.”
The infirmarer rose from his bench and silently left the chamber. I took his place upon the bench, to sit with Abbot Thurstan until Brother Guibert returned.
“For many years,” the abbot said softly, “I have desired death. But now that it is near, I fear it.”
“All men do,” I said, “if they be truthful. ’Tis a great mystery, but all will be plain when you see the Lord Christ and gaze upon His blessed face.”
“Aye. But I fear many years will pass before I am able to do so.”
I knew then what Abbot Thurstan feared.
“My sins are many,” he continued, “and I have not confessed them in chapter as I ought, as I require of those under me. My pride will send me to purgatory for many years. And now ’tis too late to confess… What penance can I do from my bed?”
“Your faith is strong?” I asked.
“Oh, aye. But I am a weak man in many ways. My sins will not soon be purged.”
“Did not the Lord Christ already do so?” I said. “Upon His cross, where He died for men’s sins?”
“Aye, He did so… but my sins…”
All men’s sins loom large before them, I think, when death draws near. ’Twould be well for our souls if we were more attentive to our sins when we are hale and hearty.
“My punishment will be great,” the abbot said after a time of silence.
“Why? Was not the Lord Christ’s death enough to gain a man’s salvation?”
“Nay. A man must suffer for his unrighteousness.”
“I remember, when a student at Baliol College, discussing this matter. One read from the first epistle of St. John, where the apostle wrote, ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ Another read from St. Paul’s letter to the Colossians: ‘Now He has reconciled in the body of His flesh through death, to present you holy, and blameless, and irreproachable in His sight – if indeed you continue in the faith.’”
The abbot said nothing for a moment, and closed his eyes as if he sought sleep. Then, with eyes yet closed, he spoke. “Was Master Wyclif one of these?”
“Nay. But he was present.”
“I thought as much. His views are becoming known. How is it you recall these verses so well?”
“When I heard them it seemed to me that they contradicted the teaching I had always heard. Next day I sought a Bible, and found the scriptures true as they were read. I took pen and parchment and copied them, and having read these passages often, I now remember them well.
“Do these scriptures not bring you comfort?” I continued. “Do you confess your sins?”
“Daily,” Abbot Thurstan replied.
“Then believe the apostle when he wrote that you are cleansed from all unrighteousness. Why must you be cleansed of sin in purgatory when the Lord Christ has taken away all unrighteousness?”
“I retained you to seek a murderer. Now you teach me the Scriptures. I have studied and read them all of my life.”
“I do not mean any impertinence.”
“Can a man be impertinent who only repeats Holy Writ?”
The abbot then fell silent. His eyes opened and he stared at the boss of the vaulted ceiling of his chamber. I spoke again. I should perhaps have remained silent.
“If the Lord Christ has already made you holy, and blameless, and irreproachable in His sight, why would He condemn you to a purgatory… to require you be purged of that which you do not have?”
The abbot continued staring silently at his chamber ceiling for a time. “Bishop Bokyngham would think you a heretic for such thoughts,” he finally said.
“I will be careful to hold my tongue in his presence,” I said.
“What would happen to this abbey, to churches and chapels and cathedrals, if men did not offer coin so that priests and monks pray for their souls?”
Here was a question for which I had no ready answer. But I spoke my uncertainty. “Can Holy Church only continue if it requires men to pay for salvation which the Lord Christ has already provided upon the cross? I cannot believe it so.”
“You speak like a theologian, and a troublesome one, rather than a surgeon and bailiff.”
“Must only priests and monks know what the Lord Christ has said in Holy Scripture?”
Brother Guibert appeared in the chamber door, a silver cup in his hands. He peered at me strangely as he approached the abbot’s bed, then lifted his superior’s shoulders so he might drink the mixture of wine and crushed hemp seeds. The infirmarer apologized for the delay of his return. He had, he said, to crush more hemp seeds to make the potion.
Abbot Thurstan sipped from the offered cup. As I watched I saw a shadow pass through the chamber door. ’Twas Brother Theodore. He saw what Brother Guibert was about and waited near the door until the cup was empty, then approached the bed.
“The archdeacon has arrived,” he said.
Abbot Thurstan passed a hand across his forehead and grimaced. “I had forgot that he was coming. Make apology for me, and tell him I must receive him here. Tell Brother Gerald to make place for his party in the guest house. Archdeacon Stephen will sleep in my visitors’ chamber, as always.” Then, under his breath, to himself, the abbot said, “What a time for him to show himself.”
Considering the thoughts I had recently shared with the abbot, I had no desire to meet an archdeacon. I bid the abbot “Farewell,” and departed the chamber. Brother Guibert did likewise, and Brother Theodore followed.
Our footsteps echoed upon the planks of the corridor, but could not muffle the sound of a stentorian voice which came from the stairs to the lower level of the west range.
Brother Theodore hurried ahead and stumbled down the stairs. The infirmarer and I followed at a more cautious pace. One abbey resident had already fallen down a stairwell.
Prior Philip and the guest-master were in conversation with several men I had not before seen about the abbey; the archdeacon, I assumed, with
his party. Conversation this discourse could not rightly be called, for the prior was mostly silent. A large man, dressed in a fine white cassock spattered with mud about the hem, spoke. All others listened.
Prior Philip nodded assent as the archdeacon instructed him. Brother Theodore eventually gained notice, and as Arthur and I departed the cloister I heard him tell the newcomers of the abbot’s injury.
’Twas nearly time for our dinner, so we returned to the guest house and awaited the lay brother who would bring our meal from the abbot’s kitchen. The fellow was much delayed. No doubt the archdeacon’s arrival had thrown the kitchener and his staff out of joint.
When our dinner finally appeared ’twas but two bowls of pease pottage and maslin loaves. Saturday is a fast day, to be sure, but we were given no fish. I suspect that the meal planned for Abbot Thurstan and his guests fed the archdeacon rather than Arthur and me, and we consumed the plain fare served to the monks in the refectory.
“What’s an archdeacon doin’ at the abbey?” Arthur said as we finished our pottage.
“The Bishop of Lincoln will have sent him, to see that all is proper and in accord with the Rule.”
“What rule?”
“The Rule of St. Benedict.”
“Oh… that prior didn’t seem much pleased to see ’im.”
“Likely not. The purpose of an archdeacon’s visit is to ferret out what is wrong in an abbey, not to discover that all is as it should be.”
“Ah,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “If the archdeacon reports no wrongdoin’ the bishop will believe he’s incompetent… an’ so he’ll always find some evil to report. No wonder his visit is unwelcome.”
“Aye. But that is for the monks and clerics to sort out,” I said. “As for us, we’ll see to that boar’s head that Brother Gerleys placed near the wood, then visit a suitor or two. Perhaps we should begin with Sir Thomas.”
“Spends much time gazin’ at Maude from windows, does Sir Thomas,” Arthur grinned. “Might be put off if he knew a lad more handsome than ’im was attendin’ Maude of a midnight. ’Course, whether or not John Whytyng was handsome we must take the word of them what knew ’im. His looks wasn’t so pleasin’ when we found ’im.”
I expected much of the flesh to be gone from the boar’s head and was not disappointed. Three days had passed since Brother Gerleys had left the head at the edge of the wood, and in another day, or two at the most, the thing would have as much flesh peeled from it as John Whytyng’s face when we found him. Of course, the thick, bristly skin of a boar might prove a tougher meal for the birds than the soft flesh of a novice. Birds had flapped noisily from the place when we approached, and sat above us, patiently waiting for us to depart.
This we soon did. There was little more to be learned from a decaying boar’s head. As we passed the brambles where I had found the tuft of fur, Arthur spoke.
“If that fur you found has to do with the novice’s death, it’ll be one of them knights that did for ’im, I’m thinkin’.”
I agreed, and asked how he had reached that conclusion.
“How many monks ’ave a fur coat… maybe the abbot? He’s too frail to follow a man in the night and plunge a dagger into ’im three times. An’ that yeoman of Cumnor…”
“Osbern Mallory,” I prompted him.
“Aye, Mallory. Such as ’im can’t wear fur at all.”
“They can, but only of the meaner sort: rabbit, cat, or fox.”
“Oh. Suppose that tuft is fox?”
“Mayhap. But I agree with you. ’Tis my belief that either Sir Thomas or Ralph is our quarry. Or Perhaps even Sir Geoffrey.”
“Him what’s married?”
“Has a wandering eye, so said Adam.”
“An’ where an eye wanders,” Arthur said, “other parts of a fellow is likely to follow.”
Sir Richard Cyne, I decided as we approached his house, was a prosperous man. His manor house had been recently whitewashed, was well thatched, and had what I believe was a nearly new bay rising above the older part of the structure. This, I learned, was a new hall. The loss of laborers and rents since the great death seemed not to have afflicted Sir Richard so badly as others of his station. Or he was much in debt and living on borrowed shillings.
The manor house door was stout. I rapped firmly upon it several times before a servant pulled it open on well-greased hinges, and my knuckles can attest to the substantial nature of its construction.
The servant noted my fine cotehardie, fashionable cap and liripipe, and possibly identified Arthur’s livery. He tugged a forelock.
“Good day, sirs,” he said. “How may I serve you?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, here to speak to Sir Thomas.”
“Ah, I must then disappoint you. Sir Thomas has gone off a-riding.”
“When will he return? Did he say?”
“Nay. I heard him say to Sir Richard that he was off to Cumnor an’ would return anon.”
I thanked the fellow, told him I would return later, and exchanged glances with Arthur.
“Cumnor,” Arthur said when the door closed behind us. “That’s where that yeoman suitor’s from. Is it far?”
“Beyond Swinford a few miles. You’ll remember Swinford.”
“Hah. Not likely to forget. Wonder if that fellow I knocked into the river’s got the water out of his ears yet. We gonna chase after Sir Thomas?”
“‘Chase’ is not the proper term. We will seek him on the road to Cumnor.”
“An’ likely find ’im somewhere near to Osbern Mallory’s holdings, or I’ll miss my guess.”
A lay brother saddled our palfreys, and less than an hour after standing before the manor house we approached Swinford. The day was chill, although the misting rain had ceased, and the Thames was cold and dark. We had to spur our beasts to convince them ’twas in their interest to enter the water and splash to the eastern side.
Like many other villages, plague had done much harm to Cumnor. Several houses stood collapsing and empty. I saw dwellings which gave evidence of care and occupation, but many were derelict. Before a well-kept house a fine horse stood tethered.
The beast shifted skittishly as we approached, and when we drew near I understood why. Angry voices raised in argument sounded from the open door of the house. As I watched, a tiny lass of no more than six or seven years scurried out of the door into the street. She did not halt her flight until she reached the verge on the other side, where she turned, quivering, and sucked upon a grimy fist.
The argument may have begun with shouted words, but it advanced to blows. Two men toppled through the door as Arthur and I dismounted. They rolled toward the tethered horse, which bucked and squealed in fright, then broke free and galloped off toward Swinford, throwing clots of mud from its hooves.
Arthur’s beast and my own danced about nervously as Sir Thomas’s horse – I was sure of the owner – charged past. Arthur and I held tight to the palfreys and watched the brawl before us. The combatants seemed evenly matched. They alternated between rolling in an angry embrace in the mud and standing, calling curses upon each other, before coming again to blows.
I had first thought Sir Thomas fat. Such was the appearance he gave when standing at his window. I soon learned that there was a heavily muscled man under that bulging belly. His thick arms and legs hid much strength below their plump outlines.
His opponent was not so solidly assembled as Sir Thomas, but was taller, and possessed of a lean strength developed from years of following a plow and doing the thousand other tasks necessary to wring sustenance from England’s soil. He was the sort of man who, with a few thousand companions, had sent flights of arrows down upon the French at Poitiers.
I thought that the brawl would soon end, and had no interest in putting myself, or Arthur, between two powerful, angry men. I was wrong. They fought on, standing to catch a breath only momentarily before sallying back to the fray.
Arthur and I tied the palfreys to a conve
nient shrub while thus entertained. I could see in Arthur’s eyes that he would willingly join the combat if he knew which man most deserved aid. This eventually became apparent.
After flinging themselves about in the mud again the fighters stood and I saw Sir Thomas draw his dagger. His opponent raised his hands and backed away when he saw the blade. A fair fight was no longer so. Osbern Mallory was in retreat toward his house. Perhaps in the house he had a dagger, but he did not at the moment. And even had he possessed then a weapon he would not likely be so skilled in its use as a knight.
Sir Thomas advanced upon the yeoman as he backed away. The knight was not content to win the skirmish, I thought, but intended a more permanent triumph.
I felt Arthur stiffen beside me, turned and saw his face twist into a scowl. The dagger in Sir Thomas’s hand offended his sense of fairness. He had been enjoying the combat of equally matched foes, but that pleasure was now ended.
Sir Thomas lunged for Mallory, his dagger describing great sweeping arcs as, with each slashing stroke, the knight’s blade came closer to the yeoman. Unless Mallory turned quickly and ran, one of Sir Thomas’s thrusts would, sooner or later, find its mark.
“Halt,” I yelled. “Cease this combat.”
I might as well have called for two drakes to stop fighting over a duck. My shout had no effect. Sir Thomas continued to advance upon his foe without so much as turning his head to see whence the bellowed command had come. I reached for my dagger and saw from the corner of my eye that Arthur had drawn his as well. Before I could take a step Arthur started for the combatants, intent on evening the unbalanced conflict.
We were too late. Sir Thomas lunged and again swept his dagger before him. The weapon slashed through the sleeve of Mallory’s cotehardie. The blade found another mark also. I saw the yeoman look to his forearm, and at the same instant a red stain appeared upon the edges of his gashed garment. Mallory put a hand to his arm, and blood flowed between his fingers. The man’s arm was sorely wounded.
Sir Thomas must have thought the same. He glanced down at his dagger as if he found it incredible that the weapon could have done such an injury. I thought he might press his advantage against his wounded adversary, but not so. The blood oozing between Mallory’s fingers seemed to cancel Sir Thomas’s wrath. With a last look at his dagger he thrust it into its sheath. He then turned and glared at me. ’Twas then I saw blood dripping from his nose and upper lip. Sometime during the altercation Osbern Mallory had delivered a telling blow.
